


L'homme Aux Camélias

by roraruu



Series: A Forgotten Collection of Fables [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst and Tragedy, Background Relationships, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Rhyming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: Opera diva Dorothea recalls her brief but intense romantic affair with the Margrave of Gautier, Sylvain. Based on the ballet Marguerite and Armand by Sir Frederick Ashton and the novel La Dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: A Forgotten Collection of Fables [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659070
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	L'homme Aux Camélias

**Author's Note:**

> short note: i was fortunate enough to get to go to the ballet earlier this year, where i saw a performance of Marguerite and Armand, a famous ballet which became the influence for moulin rouge! dir by baz luhrmann  
> which in turn was suggested to me by my bud teri as a more modern piece to the collection. anyways, when there was a break in the performance, i was immediately on my phone in the box looking up the basis for it and like ok. the main character's surname is gautier, what more did i need.  
> anyways this is being posted earlier by request--it actually belongs to the second collection but we'll overlook that for now. the dorovain sect of the archive is almost all done by my bud soph, and bruh we gotta feed her too  
> final note is that this is one of two double version stories. i found the pairing worked nicely with sylvain and marianne so there's a version of that coming up. i hope yalll come back for it.  
> as always, thanks for reading n everything y'all do ♥️♥️♥️

Lying on her deathbed of consumption, Dorothea Arnault was only tended to by her close confidant and friend, Manuela. Often, through her hacking coughs, she whispered out:  
“Oh may I tell you Manuela...   
about the man with the camellias?”

And though she had heard Dorothea’s woeful story many times, Maneula would kindly hold her hand and listen. The lips that once sung romantic coloraturas and lovers’ duets, now sang the bittersweet aria of her brief but intense romance with her lover, Sylvain Gautier.

Dorothea met this man in the dressing rooms of her opera house. A clause had been written into her contract, stating that she must welcome any and all of her admirers to her private quarters before her performances. And so she did: they were all invited into her dressing room at once, swelling in numbers. She would smirk and hide laughter while her noble admirers fought for her hand like young boys.

Amongst her admirers, there was often a man who was  _ forced  _ to sit in upon these meetings. He was the Prime Minister of Adrestia’s son, Ferdinand. He often looked upon Dorothea as though she were not a person, but something otherworldly. As she was paid to, Dorothea entertained Ferdinand with drink and chatter, sometimes a song if the occasion called for it. 

Her admirers eventually took to wearing white roses; a sign that their hearts had been broken by the Divine Songstress. In the opera house, the colour white became a symbol of broken hearts and lost loves, a symbol that Dorothea had unwittingly curated. Her manager had laughed and suggested that she only wear red, a symbol of passion and love.

“Perhaps you are right;  
Red looks good on me, shades of dark or light.” Dorothea mused. Quickly, her costumes had swelled with hues of maroon, burgundy, rose, salmon and wine. Every outfit was adorned with red, making her into an icon of beauty and sexuality, known across Fódlan and beyond.

She was often sent roses from by her admirers; majority of the time she received so many that they took up her dressing room. Often she joked that her room was actually a greenhouse. From yellow to white to spotted and blue, Dorothea received every message that passed with them:  
_ I adore you;  
_ _ You make me blue.  
_ _ Marry me;  
_ _ I am restless, because of you, I shall forever be.  
_ _ Jealousy and hatred—  
_ _ And passion in every shade of red. _

In the midst of the Great Tree moon, the prince of Faerghus expressed desire to see the Mystic Songstress perform. Eager to tap into a new market and earn coin, Dorothea’s manager planned a stint in the cold country in the north. She consented, and in the rest of the month, the troupe travelled from warm Adrestia to the cold lands of Faerghus. The Opera House had been offered lodgings with House Fraldarius, which they gratefully took advantage of. 

And by luck or fate, Sylvain was staying with the Duke and his son, Felix when Dorothea arrived. Upon meeting his gaze, Dorothea saw herself in his eyes. As she was escorted her from the carriage and introduced to the House Fraldarius and young noble, Sylvain pulled the camellia from his lapel, offering it to the lady before him.  
“You suit the beauty of a camellia,  
Their colour compliments your eyes much better.” He had said, before pulling one from his lapel.

Dorothea, a master in the flirtatious ways of men, had smirked at his meagre offering.  
“Such empty words earn you nothing,  
Except the pain of a tongue’s lashing.”

“Such threats are bores.  
Only unless they are yours.” He’d teased.

The Duke asked for Dorothea to sing a song after their supper, which she happily did. Although, while she sang, she felt Sylvain’s eyes upon her the entire time. And not upon her hips or breasts as many other men did, but upon her eyes, as though he was staring right through her. 

Such a thing confused Dorothea. She had only ever been gazed upon and mentioned as a masterpiece from a painting, a statute of ivory, even a beautiful water nymph as the Prime Minister’s son had so charmingly called her once. But never a  _ true  _ person.

And this simple stare, became the trigger to their passionate love affair. 

Sylvain requested a private tea with Dorothea the following day. As they took it, he brought her a dozen camellias, remarking again that she would look lovelier with them. Dorothea swiftly dodged such a flirt, but was intriguing by their shape and colour, how they looked and how they rivalled a rose.

“But in the end, they still symbolize love:

Just as peace is represented by a dove.” Sylvain remarked before bidding her farewell.

The following night, Dorothea refused all other flowers in her dressing room, excepting Sylvain’s. As time passed, Dorothea found a confidante in the scion. He too was only wanted for what he held, not what he was. Though, his desirability was in his blood, in a Crest which would not fade with time; while Dorothea’s beauty and sexual appeal would fade in the passing of years.

“So, Dorothea, who do you intend to marry?  
Or do you wish to steal their time and tarry...” Sylvain asked candidly. Their afternoon teas had become the norm, something which made Dorothea’s mornings all the more bearable.

“So far my match seems to be Count Gloucester’s son.  
He is confident that he will leave the race won.” Dorothea replied over her cup of tea.

“A race? It is not yours to choose?”

“No. And in every case I lose.” 

Sylvain’s face paled. “I fear I am the same.   
I must marry or lose my family’s name.”

Reality faced the margrave and the songstress: a life of few choices, one of forced happiness and faked smiles. And Sothis had turned her ears and eyes from them for a moment, allowing them to fall into each other’s hands and hearts. In the dark of the drawing room floor of the Fraldarius estate, Sylvain and Dorothea faced little deaths, that would lead to much harder ones.

As the Harpstring moon became full and bright as the stars above, Dorothea performed for the royal houses of Faerghus, including Prince Dimitri. She shone like a diamond, attracted men like the beauty of a rose and sang like an angel of Sothis. Her performance went without a hitch, until she looked out into the crowd, finding the eyes of the Count’s son, Lorenz, and Sylvain. Hiding her fear, Dorothea hurried backstage, but not before her dressing room had swelled with visitors.

She was doted upon for close to an hour. The eyes of noble men of Faerghus searing her and their tongues singing of her beauty. And of course, the Count’s son had strutted in, commanding Dorothea’s attention. Upon his lapel was a single red rose.  
“The one that I pin to my breast,  
Reminds me of the diva that sings best.” He whispered to her.

While she feigned a smile and sipped her wine between fawning admirers, she stole glances at Sylvain. He did not look surprised, nor hurt. Still, he looked at her with the same soul-searching gaze. And when Lorenz asked why she refused his roses, she simply said:  
“For now, I prefer the camellia.  
For they suit my eyes much better.” She said. Her eyes had flickered to Sylvain before turning to Lorenz.

“Now that is it for the show.  
Dear Lorenz, shall we go?”

Her admirers had turned away, mourning that they had not been selected to treat her to supper or a night cap. Lorenz rose to his feet, offering his arm to Dorothea. As she took it, she reached up into the vase of camellias brought by her lover. Bringing it to her lips, she daintily smelt it before throwing it to the ground behind her.

And Sylvain, claiming dominance over all the other admirers, was the one to pick it up.

From there, Dorothea and Sylvain’s relationship only sweetened. Dorothea insisted upon an additional week in Faerghus to spend with her lover, though she did not mention his name. After a word from Sylvain and a handsome handful of gold, Dorothea’s manager agreed to an additional month with the nobleman. Such a gift was held tightly to Dorothea’s heart.

And as he was called to his own lands for duties, Lorenz bade Dorothea farewell, all the while glaring at the future margrave. In that blessed month, Dorothea’s heart swelled with love for Sylvain, an emotion that she had never truly felt before. The same was to Sylvain, afraid and enthralled by such a feeling.

Every day they met, Sylvain brought Dorothea another camellia. He tucked them behind her ears, to her breast, placed them in her hand, pinned them upon her coat pocket. Without fail, Dorothea would smile and ask how she looked. And always, Sylvain would reply:  
“Believe me, for I could never lie:  
There is a beautiful flower before my eyes.” 

But just as quickly as Sothis gazed away from the two lovers, she had glared back with a vengeance. In a letter, Dorothea quit Lorenz, claiming that she no longer sold herself to admirers. And in Gautier’s estate, the walls have ears and eyes. As she entrusted the letter to a servant of House Gautier, the bastard read the letter, shocked by its contents. Word was quickly passed onto Old Gautier, who had begun to arrange the marriage of Sylvain to Ingrid of Galatea.

After hearing his scion speak of love and art with Dorothea, Old Gautier called Sylvain into his study. The Margrave left little on the table, save for a wilting camellia.  
“Leave this Adrestian courtesan alone.  
You are a man now, fully grown.  
Take Count Galatea’s daughter as a wife,  
And you shall have a fulfilling life.” The Margrave pressured.

But Sylvain did not wish to marry for advantage or status. He longed to marry for love, unlike his parents’ bitter distrust of each other. He laughed and simply played it off:  
“She is not someone I intent to marry,   
Just another flirt that I will bury.” Sylvain assured his father.

If  _ only  _ that were the case. As a precaution, the Margrave also spoke to Dorothea, although less kindly. He ordered a guard to hold her at a sword’s blade until she agreed to quit Sylvain too. And, to spit in her face, he plucked the camellia from her hair and tore off it’s bright red petals.   
“Swear to me,  
That you will my son be.” He ordered.

On her knees, her dignity destroyed and heart broken, Dorothea cried out.  
“Upon the Goddess’s grave,   
And on this career which I staved.  
Marry Sylvain? I will not!  
I would sooner rot.”

She withdrew herself, no longer singing lover’s ballads and sweet songs. Her eyes now shot from Sylvain instead of to him. And her hands grew cold and stiff when he reached for hers in the dark of night. Though, she still longed for him. In secret, they made love once more before Sylvain held her close and took her hand to his chest. She watched as he moved an engagement ring onto her finger. With passion that he had never known of before, he pleaded to her:  
“Come with me, just away to Fraldarius.   
Where my friend Felix promises to hide us.  
Marry me Dorothea,  
Be the answer to my plea.” 

And to his hopeful appeal, Dorothea’s body turned cold. She simply stared at his face for a moment, to commit his face to memory. With a saddened croak:  
“Sylvain,   
I will never fall into your hands again.”

Shocked, she wrenched the band off her finger and dressed quickly.   
“Dorothea? What makes you mad?   
Where did the love go? The one we just had?” He begged as Dorothea turned back to him. Upon her dress was a camellia, bright and full. 

She gave him not an answer, but pulled the camellia from her breast. She gave it one final glimpse before flinging it to the floor and fleeing off into the night. Her tears and cries carried through the land and echoed out into the waters of Sreng. Sylvain retreated back into the manor, to call for the help of the Margrave’s guards. However, when he raises his voice into the hallway, he was met with Dorothea’s manager and his own Father.

The manager banned Sylvain from ever seeing Dorothea again. Holding a dagger to his throat, he warned the boy:  
“Should you ever again speak to her,  
Your heart shall be mine to cleaver.” He vowed before leaving after Dorothea.

But Old Gautier’s punishment was much worse. He confiscated the beautiful ring that Sylvain meant to propose and gave him a much more grandiose one.   
“Go to the Countess Galatea,  
And for her hand, make an honest plea.”

Sylvain was forced to woo and marry the Lady of Galatea, Ingrid, while Dorothea returned to her life before that moon. The Count’s son was happy to take her back, but not without a long appeal. Embarrassed, Dorothea begged for his love, his protection and riches, which he was all too happy to give her.

Though all seemed calm, Sylvain’s heart ached and burned. He longed for an explanation, an answer to why Dorothea had refused him when he longed for her and had loved her with all his heart. And, in a brash decision, he left his wife and travelled to the Mittelfrank Opera House in Enbarr. Cloaked and disguised, he paid his price to be one of Dorothea’s admirers for the night. He watched as Dorothea flitted and fluttered, her charms and whims captivating all the guests. And when the night began to quiet, Sylvain brought her a camellia. 

Her eyes widened with realization, looking to her masked admirer.

“Sylvain?”

“I hope my trip was not in vain.”

“You cannot be here—“

“I have no fear.” He insisted.  
“I ask you again, Dorothea my sweet;  
Be my lover, with which daylight greet—“

Steadfast to protecting him, the diva turned away. However, she saw the glint of his wedding band and felt her heart ache.  “I cannot.”

“You truly wish for my heart to rot?”

“You’ve let mine so easily!  
The heart of a girl to you is measly!”

Rage erupted in Sylvain:  
“Only the one of a courtesan;  
Whose heart only opens to rich hands!” He barked, garnering the attention of all her admirers. He reached to her hand, pulling the camellia’s head away before throwing gold marks upon her lap and fleeing in fury.

On that night, Dorothea’s admirers floundered. They fled at such ridicule: all but the sweet Ferdinand. He cared not that she was a courtesan, that she loved another man, and that she would never fully be his. In time, he became Dorothea’s only admirer, and after a long and trying courtship, her husband.

In time, Sylvain found that he loved his wife, Ingrid, but not with the same ache, the same synchronicity that he had loved Dorothea with. The same transferred to Dorothea upon her husband. Sylvain sired many children, often with Crests which pleased Margrave Gautier and Count Galatea. And Dorothea herself had become a mother twice over, but was noted by her children to always gaze upon them as though they were not her own.

Ferdinand died in the heat of summer, in Imperial Year 1176. His last words were of Dorothea:  
“Dorothea, my love, my wife.  
How blessed was I, to share a life.” 

And later in that same year, Ingrid asked for a separation from her husband, Sylvain. Her last words to him were:  
“Sylvain, you made me believe such a pretty lie:  
That we loved each other, you and I.”

In the same year, Dorothea’s health took a turn for the worse, contracting consumption. Her health deteriorated quickly, and she wished for only two people: her mentor, Manuela, and Sylvain. 

Manuela, aged finely herself, had seen Dorothea’s sorrows for many, many years. And in silence, she watched Dorothea live a life that she longed to have with Sylvain. In secret, the senior diva wrote a hastened letter to Sylvain, begging him to hurry to see her. Often, Manuela would look at her ailing student and hear her say:  
“Oh may I tell you Manuela...   
about the man with the camellias?  
So fine and sweet a man,  
Who fell so easily from the grasp in my hand.”

Upon receiving the letter, Sylvain hurried to von Aegir’s lands. He arrived just in time, as Dorothea was upon death’s door. There, in the same chaise that she had lounged upon before, Sylvain saw his lost love. She cried out to him:

“Sylvain?  
Please be not my mind, lying to me in vain—“

The margrave took her into his arms, embracing her gingerly.  
“No Dorothea,   
It is me.” He promised.

“I resigned myself to a life without you,  
One that turned my entire soul blue.” She confessed.

“I am here now.  
I’d rather die than go.” 

Dorothea smiled weakly before begging for one last kiss. She held him tight, with all her strength before dying. And her last words to him, with her final breath were:  
“I have never known any love more true,  
Than that of the love I shared with you.   
I ached and longed, I yearned and pined  
And at last Sylvain, you are mine.”


End file.
